


Inerasable Curse

by aeber



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, Fantasy, Fluff, Howl's Moving Castle AU, M/M, Wings, at this point what do you expect, beauty and the beast au(?), grima chrobin oh yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2020-05-12 22:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19238257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeber/pseuds/aeber
Summary: Howl's moving castle AU because i have 0 self controlChrom flees from Ylisstol and finds a secluded mage in the middle of nowhere who has a tendency for turning into a feathered dragon.(He also falls in love with him)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from the Howl's Moving Castle soundtrack  
> Idea was suggested by Daraen's Descendent over on my other fic and it's so overdue I'm sorry!
> 
> I apologize for not uploading for a time and aha, starting a new series when I still have another ongoing, I have no excuses I just have adhd and I think I just overcame my writer's block so
> 
> Anyways I hope you like it!

Night breaks, and Chrom dodges the assassin’s knife by the breadth of a hair.

 

The sheets rumple as he twists out of reach. The blade slits the air in half, flashing silver in the starlight. He doesn’t reach for his sword but seizes the dagger mid-swing and flings it across the room. Then, while the intruder flinches, he lurches forward, grasps the extra hilt on their belt and yanks it back. It’s feathery light, as any assassin’s blade should.

 

He nearly misses the second one that slinks in through the door.

 

A press of the curved edge against his assailant’s neck sprays blood over his rich, carpeted floor. Before the man begins to spasm he’s already onto his feet, sliding past a bolt of magic and ramming his weapon into the spellcaster’s chest. A desperate hand clings onto his arm, sending a wave of nausea through him, then drops still. He releases the blade and knocks the man to the ground. Then he realizes he’s been hit.

 

He hears footsteps rushing to his room, and it’s not the distinct clanking of royal armour. Or even if it were, he’d still be in trouble. A glimpse of himself in the mirror and the illusion of his corpse on the ground sends him clambering out of the window, pulse thundering in his ears. The drop is easily five stories high. He swallows and focuses on shimmying out of danger.

 

Perhaps he should go find Frederick. Would Frederick recognise him, in this state?

 

Only the faint glow of the hallway will-o-wisps guides him towards the gardens. The guards’ sirens are blaring throughout the castle, and probably through Ylisstol too. He really should have gone and checked on Lissa. The window to her room remains dark.

 

He ducks out between a crack in the garden walls. There, he finds the assassin’s horse by sheer luck, grazing beneath a tree a few paces from him. It sniffs at him suspiciously, rearing its head as Chrom tugs at the bit.

 

 _I know,_ he thinks as he saddles and spurs it into a gallop. _I’m not your owner, despite what looks may tell._

 

The forest is aboding in the night. He urges his mount forward, till he finds the line of hoofprints he’d made in the soft dirt and decides to leave the horse alone. There aren’t a lot of things on him, considering that he’d been startled out of bed, but the spell was so nice to provide him a set of attire identical to the assassin. At least he doesn’t have to tread through the forest barefoot.

 

A thick layer of clouds obscures the stars, swathing his surroundings in an unrelenting darkness. It might be midnight, it might be near dawn. The sky is void of the moon. His own breath chills with each exhale, dissipating as quickly as it had formed.

 

Dense fog rises in the muffling silence. He’s utterly, completely lost.

 

The adrenaline wears off soon enough. He can barely see in front of himself in the swirling mist. The hazy silhouettes of ill-shapen trees loom as shadowed creatures, each rustle behind him telling of nonexistent wolves. He’s reached for Falchion numerous times only to close his fist around air.

 

A sharp glint catches the edge of his vision, just above the fog. A closer look identifies a spire of a house- no- mansion, unaffected by the wavering breeze. As he draws near, the vapour suddenly vanishes, kept at bay by a mysterious barrier, resting right beyond the overgrown gardens.

 

A shiver runs down his spine. For a moment he debates whether if it’s a good idea to seek refuge in such a place. A howl from somewhere distant convinces him that wandering in the wilderness unarmed is almost certainly the worse choice.

 

He knocks.

 

As expected, he receives no reply. He tries again for good measure and pushes against the door hesitantly. It swings open on smooth hinges to his uneasy surprise, slotting smoothly when he shuts it behind him. The interior is well-furnished, though obviously aged. A chandelier hangs brokenly on a rusted chain.

 

It’s not the furniture that makes him stare though. He’s never seen so many books before, not even in the royal library. There are books piled everywhere on the floor, on the shelves, scattered on the fireplace and stacked neatly to fill each wall and corner. He manoeuvres through the haphazard mess, cringing as he knocks over a particularly large stack.

 

The rest of the mansion is in equal disarray. By some miracle, the water runs, but he can’t for the life of him imagine what kind of hermit would stay here. There’s no lock on the front door and civilisation is several hours away. The shelves are covered with dust, the wallpaper scratched and torn in places.

 

A latch turns from the living room. He drops the book he’s inspecting and quickly presses himself against a shelf, breathing hard. His fingers are digging into the rough wood, feet shifting quietly in an attempt to slip into the kitchens. No light shines into the room as the door opens, but he can feel the cool rush of air brush on his skin.

 

He fumbles for a weapon. There is none in his vicinity. The sound of the door clamping shut reverberates through the house. He strains for any footsteps, but all he picks up is the absolute silence. From his periphery he swears he sees the shadow of a writhing monster, but the next moment it is gone.

 

Seconds stretch into eternity. The moment he relaxes, a bout of foreign footsteps drives him into wild anxiety.

 

“I know you’re there.” The voice is unaccented, unambiguously male. “Come out.”

 

Chrom swallows. Slowly, he edges out, peering over the corner. When he speaks, it comes out shaky and hoarse.

 

“I’d thought it was abandoned while looking for shelter.”

 

“Yes. And you’ve entered my home, without my permission.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Oh, I’ll make sure you are. Will you step out now? Or will I have to drag you out myself?”

 

He emerges from his hideout and sucks in a sharp breath. The man’s hair is a shock of white over the conventional shades, eyes a bright, deadly red that reminds him of fresh blood. His gaze trails to the mage’s coat on his shoulders, heavy and rimmed with gold.

  
Chrom opens his mouth to speak. He tries to explain, but he can’t, and ends up wheezing syllables while clawing at his throat.

 

“That’s a nasty curse you’ve got there.” His lips curl into a thin smile. “What’s your name?”

 

Anyone in Ylisse would recognise him in a heartbeat. He hadn’t thought of an alias.

 

“Stop hesitating. Your real name.”

 

“…Chrom.”

 

“Chrom.” He rolls the name on his tongue, as if savouring how it sounds. “You barge into my house,” he tilts his head over to the collapsed piled of books, “make a mess, and demand hospitality?”

 

“I- uh- I’m sorry, I’ll get out-”

 

“No.” He purses his lips, shrugging off his coat and laying it over the couch. "You have nowhere to go, do you?"

 

He nods dumbly. 

 

“Whatever. Do as you like. Guest rooms are on the second floor.”

 

Chrom blinks. “Thank you?”

 

He’s gone, up the stairs and disappearing into the winding corridors of the mansion, the sole proof of his existence being the heavily embroidered coat draped over the couch. Silence fills the room once again.

 

The stairs creak under Chrom’s lumbering weight. As he blunders through the corridors in search of his room, he finds a black plume on the ground, seared on an edge.

 

He makes nothing of it and walks on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iuugeadsdkjfa finals are not over


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘regular updates’ my ass, it has been twenty years
> 
> i, i am so sorry, school, health and other things finally caught up to me but I finally have holiday (fuck n finally) the next few days so hopefully I’ll make do on updates! thank you all for bearing with me and all your lovely support!
> 
> (i also took the time to read the original Howl novel to get a better grasp of the character+plot development but,, excuses)

Chrom wakes up with a headache and an incredibly powerful bout of nausea. He stares at the walls, the stink of dust slowly rousing him to consciousness. He’d thought he was still in the castle. The hard mattress digging into his shoulders tells him otherwise.

 

Sunlight is streaming in from the window, particles of dust swirling in the single beam of light shuttered between curtains. Muscles aching, he scrambles up from the bed, throwing off the covers as he glimpses his reflection in the vanity mirror. He grimaces.

 

He looks so _dull_ now. His complexion, now considerably paler, is a terrible contrast to the disgusting brown in his hair. The blue’s completely gone. He’s also gotten a bit shorter.

 

Ah, the perks of being royalty. He’s never missed his clumsy hunk of a body so much.

 

Quietly, he turns the knob to his door, fearing that he’d wake the master of the house. He’d die of guilt if he were to impose any further. Or get kicked out. Shuffling into the corridor, he leans on the stairway railing and freezes.

 

The girl below notices and lowers the butter knife in her hand. She cocks her head upwards.

 

“Good morning.”

 

“Good morning— who are you?”

 

“Morgan, Robin’s apprentice.” She pauses right as Chrom starts making his sluggish descent down the stairs. “He didn’t tell you about me, did he?”

 

“It wasn’t exactly the most civilised conversation last night.”

 

She nods sagely, as if acknowledging some unspoken fact. “Chrom, right? Like the prince of Ylisse?”

 

“…That’s right.”

 

“You Ylisseans are weird. I’ve never heard anyone named after a prince.”

 

“By unfortunate coincidence,” he explains weakly, sitting opposite to her as she beckons with a dangerous wave of the greasy knife. She pushes the loaf to him.

 

“Want some?”

 

“Uh, thanks.” He receives a thick slice from her grubby fingers, inspecting the buttery marks made on the crust. It’s surprisingly soft, unlike the stuff he’s had in the castle. “So your master is comfortable with just—” he gestures vaguely, “leaving me here.”

 

 “Oh, no. He told me to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid.”

 

“Like?”

 

“Taking off and spreading rumours on your way. So, yeah. That’s why he let you stay for now.”

 

He takes a chunk off the bread. “Not one for a reputation, huh.”

 

“Of course. He’s a mage.”

 

“Doesn’t he serve m- the king?”

 

She scoffs. “Not every mage wants to be the king’s lapdog, you know.”

 

Licking the last crumbs from her fingers, she gets up from her seat, rolling her shoulders as she makes her way out of the lounge.

 

For the lack of anything to do, he follows her into the kitchen. He hasn’t expected anything less, sure, but he continues to cringe as he bumps into the mass of cobwebs littering the countertops. Morgan simply throws the cutlery into the sink and Chrom gapes as it disappears. She grins.

 

“Where did it go?”

 

“Here,” she taps on one of the drawers, which coincidentally, is one of the only two clean items of furniture in the room aside from the sink. “Obliterated and replaced. It’s enchanted.”

 

“Then what about the rest of the house?”

 

She shrugs. “I dunno. Robin only bothered with the dishes, I guess.”

 

He frowns. Drumming his fingers thoughtfully, he peers into the broom closet and rummages around for some rags and a bucket. A spider scuttles out from behind the doorframe.

 

Morgan looks over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

 

“Cleaning up,” he replies, rolling up his sleeves. “This place is a disgrace.”

 

“Robin won’t like it.”

 

“You’re not stopping me.” He points out.

 

“Maybe I, too, would like to live somewhere other than a dust-filled cave.” Before ducking out from the kitchen, she spins on her heel in afterthought. “Oh, it probably goes without saying, but don’t go into Robin’s room. Good luck!”

 

Like master, like apprentice, gone in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were related by blood.

 

In the glare of late morning, he wets the rags and wrings them dry. The water sloshes in the tin bucket, mirroring his features in the warped surface. He stares at the unfamiliar face.

 

His reflection stares back at him.

 

-

 

He finds pots stashed in places he doesn't expect them to be, grease and grime festered into foul grit on each and every surface. By the time he scrubs the furniture clean he’s already worked himself to a sweat, muscles aching from the repetitive strain.

 

So much for Frederick’s insistence that he learn the secrets of housekeeping. He’d have to thank the old knight later.

 

He spends the rest of the afternoon till night furiously sweeping the dust out of the house, polishing the stairs and wiping the windows clean of filth. As he passes the main wing he notices an inconspicuous door at the very end, obviously in recent use.

 

The master bedroom. Or Robin’s room, if he would make an educated guess. The door is void of dust, unlike the rest of the house. The trail of worn floorboards from the stairs indicate years of back and forth between the study and the room.

 

He pulls at the doorknob. It’s locked.

 

Curiosity gets the better of him. Glancing around nervously, he attempts to peer through the keyhole to little success, catching glimpses of faint silhouettes illuminated by the dying sunlight outside.

  
The distinct sound of a key turning sends a jolt of guilt down his spine. Quickly sliding out from the corridor, he pokes his head out to see the front door heave open. A mop of white emerges from the gap, coat trailing behind.

 

He watches as Robin enters, shutting the doors behind him with a wave of his hand. His eyes widen at the casual show of magic, and as if on cue Robin raises his head with an unreadable expression, lifting his gaze to look directly at Chrom. His eyes are a piercing shade of red.

 

“I see you still haven’t left.”

 

The smell of ash and rain tinges the air, mixed into the breeze that had followed Robin into the mansion. It dissipates quickly, but not before Chrom realizes that it’s not raining outside.

 

“I was told not to.” He adds. “By your apprentice.”

 

Noting his reply with a soft grunt, he removes his coat, cards a hand through his hair absentmindedly and disappears into the hallway. A moment later Morgan runs out after him cradling a pile of papers. She notices Chrom staring from above and smiles apologetically.

 

“Don’t mind him; he’s always like this.”

 

“He won’t be pleased hearing you say that.”

 

She huffs and picks up after Robin, shouting something in a language Chrom doesn’t understand. Plegian, perhaps. She does have the striking features of their people, as does Robin, though the colour of his hair makes him question his ethnicity if not by the clean Ylissean that he spoke.

 

He’s lucky the two bear no animosity to Chrom’s distinctly recognisable accent, with the war and all. Come to think of it, why were two Plegians dwelling unnoticed on Ylissean ground? Surely the military would have sniffed them out by now. Dubbed them as spies no doubt, but still.

 

A concealing spell? With someone of Robin’s calibre, he doesn’t doubt the mage’s ability to do so. But how did that explain him accidentally stumbling upon the mansion? A fault in the enchantment? An oversight due to his curse? Did he just get lucky, or…?

 

He decides not to think about it. As he turns to leave he hears Morgan yelping from behind the door and barging out, muttering to herself. The words trip out of his mouth before he realizes.

 

“Morgan? One thing.”

 

She pivots. “Yes?”

 

“Is he busy right now, or would it be a bother if I went inside?”

 

“Huh. Why ask?”

 

“I-” he feels a little self conscious telling this to a girl a little over half his age, “want to thank him for not taking me in.”

 

“You don’t need to. He doesn’t care, I’m sure.”

 

“I insist.”

 

She sighs. “Well, if you really do want to thank him,” she directs him towards a shelf, “his favourite is the blend from Ferox, mixed with honey. He’ll be in the study all night.”

 

“I- can’t thank you enough.”

 

“It’s no problem if it spares me the trouble.” She yawns. “It’s getting late. I should get going.”

 

“Sweet dreams.”

 

“G’night to you too.”

 

She waves a hand dismissively and races up the stairs. He waits awhile to see if she’d reappear, but he doesn’t see her after that. He wonders if she’s already asleep, though he has yet to come across her room throughout the day.

 

Alone again without much to do, he approaches the cupboard tentatively. True to her word, there’s a few canisters inside, along with a jar of honey half-full. He finds the blend easily enough— he’s learnt to read a little Feroxian, at least, and carries it with him to the kitchen.

 

He brings the kettle to a boil. While warming the fine china with the water, he measures out the leaves, putting them aside as he pours out the initial washing. The familiarity of it sends a pang of homesickness through him. _Emm used to drink tea at night, too._

 

Topping off the bottom of the teacup with a dollop of honey, he sets everything atop the tray and wobbles towards the double doors looming before him.

 

Swallowing his uncertainty, he knocks. The teacup rattles in his grip.

 

Robin’s voice is muffled by the door. “…Come in.”

 

He toes the door ajar and slips in. To his surprise, the room opens into a sprawling library, illuminated by the steady glow of a will-o-wisp settling over where the chandelier should have been. He’d been expecting a study of sorts, filled with fantastical magical items like potions and human skulls.

 

He’s never seen so many books gathered into one place, not even in the royal archives. It takes a second for him to search through the shelves to find Robin perched comfortably on an armchair, a book in hand. Following vague gestures, he settles the platter onto the table. Only then does Robin set the book down to watch him prepare the tea, head propped on an arm in mild intrigue.

 

In waiting for it to steep properly, Chrom breaks the silence. He fiddles with his hands awkwardly.

 

“How did you know it was me?”

 

“It couldn’t have been Morgan. She’d have gone home at this hour.”

 

“I was under the assumption that she lived here.”

 

He quirks a brow. “Hardly appropriate, for a man my age. Though, mainly, the girl has a family. Not a particularly decent one, mind you, but a family nonetheless.” He clinks his nails against the ceramic with disinterest. “It’d be wrong for me to take it away from her.”

 

As Chrom struggles to balance the strainer, Robin crosses a leg over the other and leans forward.

 

“So? What is it that you want?”

 

“I realised that I never thanked you for letting me stay.” He attempts to steady his hand while pouring, humming softly to distract himself from his thundering heartbeat. There’s something about Robin’s presence that unnerves him, that makes him lose the words on the tip of his tongue. “This is the least I can do.”

 

Robin swirls the spoon in his cup. “You’ve set to terrorising the spiders in the house too, I’ve been told.”

 

“Ah, that,” he shifts nervously, “I was thinking of making myself useful, since I can’t leave anyways. As a housekeep of sorts, if you won’t mind.”

 

“A housekeep… I suppose it wouldn’t be unappreciated.” He ruminates over the prospect. “Very well. It’s settled then.”

 

 _Till when?_ He doesn’t ask. Or rather, he can’t, when it’s involved with his curse. Instead he gets up from the table, picking up the tray with him.

 

“If there isn’t anything else, I’ll be taking my leave.”

 

He almost misses Robin’s nod of acknowledgement. He turns back for a glimpse as he’s about to leave, but he’s already reclined in his seat, flipping through the hardback with the cup of tea in hand.

 

Slight disappointment fills him and he ignores it in favour of shutting the door as quietly as possible. Though after his exit, unbeknownst to him, the library lights extinguish as Robin closes his book.

 

He sets the book down and tilts his head towards the door. Sighing, he unfurls his fist to reveal a pilfered strand of hair, utters a low string of syllables and collapses back into the chair. A chill runs through his limbs as he lets the spell take effect, sapping the energy from him.

 

_What am I doing?_

 

-

 

Sunlight is streaming in from the windows. Chrom crouches in front of the door, examining the mechanism mounted in the doorframe, a dial with four colours painted in each quarter. He has his suspicions. Trying to pry through the metal casing gives him nothing but throbbing fingertips.

 

Suddenly, the dial rotates, switching to a vibrant yellow as the lock unlatches itself. He shuffles away, taken aback. Morgan pops her head over the door as it inevitably bangs into him on the floor, snorting as she helps him to his feet.

 

When prompted, she explains that the door is indeed enchanted. Yellow for her home village, green for the mansion, red, as he finds out after fumbling with the dial, a breathtaking view of a port town in Ylisse. Black reveals a locked door that refuses to budge even with Morgan’s lockpicking skills.

 

He switches it to red most of the time, when Morgan isn’t around. The seabreeze seeps underneath the door, smelling of coarse salt and fish. He nearly succumbs to the urge to slither outside on several occasions, and each held back by an uncomfortable guilt that makes his stomach lurch.

 

The days pass uneventfully. He wakes, stretches, makes progress on his duties and goes to sleep. There’s a renewed sense of purpose in his life, unexpectedly, as opposed to the monotonous droll of training at the castle. Swinging a sword is not so different to handling a broom, after all.

 

The doorbell rings one day without warning. Morgan is telling him about Plegian folklore when that happens and she stops abruptly to hiss at Chrom to remove himself from the living room. Combing her hair hastily and scuttling to smooth the wrinkles out of her tunic, she rotates the dial with deft movements and pushes the handle down.

 

As he peers from his hideout, he sees the telltale glint of a courier’s badge and the murmur of exchange between them. She receives a scroll from the man and the door closes with a smooth click.

 

She grimaces as she reads through the parchment. Out of nowhere, Robin sweeps into view, the underside of his wrist stained with ink. His eyes narrow at the crest on the wax.

 

“Who is it?”

 

Morgan bites her lips. “The king. Ylissean port. They’ve sniffed us out.”

 

“Decline the request. There is no mage in Ylisse.”

 

“Robin— it’s a request to find the lost heir to Plegia’s crown. The one that started the war in the first place. Won’t you reconsider?”

 

“What, and give the prince back to those scum?” He scowls. “Absolutely not.”

 

“I don’t see why not.” Chrom states. “If it would end the war.”

 

Robin turns to him. “And what do you have say on this matter?”

 

“There’s no reason for you not to try.”

 

“What I do with my trade is my business.”

 

“Even if a little effort would save millions?”

 

He glowers defensively. “It’s not a matter of whether I want to or not. I can’t do it.”

 

“Why can’t you then?”

 

“Because,” he seethes, “the hierophant’s son is _dead_.”

 

A shock of silence passes between them. Slowly, as irritation builds up in Chrom’s chest, he stalks towards him, brimming with anger.

 

“Who are you to say somebody is dead or not, if you haven’t even tried looking for them?” He closes the gap, hands balled in fists. “And who are _you_ to forsake the lives of everyone in the war for your selfish desires? Even if you could stop the dying, the bombing, the killing? Have you heard the cries of children as their parents are slaughtered in front of their eyes? The screams of the women as they are raped and killed? Have you? Well?”

 

Stunned, Robin curls his lips back into a snarl, a retort fresh on his teeth but ultimately falling away to a restrained growl.

 

“Fine. Believe what you want to believe.” He spits onto the ground, flinging his coat around him. “Ignorant fool.”

 

With that, he walks stiffly to the front door and slams it behind him, leaving Morgan gaping wide-eyed. Chrom stands, stewing in his own ire, grinding his teeth at the things he has yet to yell at him.

 

“Oh,” Morgan shudders, “you’ve gone and done it now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today, I touched the tummy of my friend's cat. I have ascended into heaven. t-tumby,, ((((paw beaNS
> 
> can't believe it took me 5 days to update ug im so sorry thank you everyone for bearing with me, aa

“The nerve!” Chrom grits out in frustration, pacing back and forth. “Twenty years of warfare over some lost heir! The bastard!”

 

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Morgan tries with little success, “I’m sure he has his reasons, whatever they may be.”

 

“Selfish bigotry, that’s what.” He grips the couch, boiling with displeasure. “If Ylisse had found and given the boy back to Plegia in the first place, none of this would have happened. But oh, even though it’d stop the killing and suffering, he’s clinging onto some conspiracy like a madman, sticking to his worthless contempt. Gods!” Rumbling in discontent, he turns the dial roughly till the port is in sight. What little guilt he had for imposing had vanished completely in his vexation. “I’m going out for some fresh air.”

 

She hurries after him in a panic, barely clutching the door open to stumble after him. “Wait!”

 

He eyes her with irritation. “Are you going to tail my every move?”

 

“No,” she replies sheepishly, fishing out a shiny item in her pocket. “You’re not going to get back in without a key.”

 

Feeling foolish, he pushes forward into the port. Almost immediately, the scent of the ocean breeze washes over him, salty and crisp, the rancour of the morning vendors filling the streets as he looks around him in undisguised awe. The sea is so blue, so vast, he wonders why hasn’t once travelled to the coast in his entire life. The sleepy city of Ylisstol could never compare.

 

A certain sense of freedom blooms within him as he blends into the crowd soundlessly, no mark of royalty parading his existence to everyone in his vicinity.

 

Eventually they land on the markets, led on by the shifting crowd of bickering housewives into a wide, open street, all things edible laid bare in the sun over the clamour of coarse shouting and bartering. It is then that Chrom realises that he didn’t actually have a plan for what he’d do once he was outside, and fidgets, for the lack of of a goal, as he floats from stall to stall.

 

Inspiration hits, however, as he lays his eyes upon the rows of vegetables spread on one of the countertops. He takes a potato and weighs it in his hand.

 

 _Fuck it_ , he mutters internally. _I’m going to make stew_ , _and he’s having none of it_. He turns the tuber over to brush the dirt off the skin. Petty as it may be, he doesn’t really have any other way of revenge. He’s going to make the best stew Robin’ll ever smell in his pitiful, reclusive life.

 

What did Stahl tell him about picking potatoes again?

 

Of course, Morgan picks up on this, being the one handing the money over to his purchases. She refrains from commenting but gives him a judgemental raise of her brow that prompts him to simmer with self-consciousness. It doesn’t stop him from piling up a basketful of ingredients, though.

 

At his final stop, he makes a half-hearted attempt to redirect her away with the prospect of exploration. She complies unexpectedly easily, leaving him to his own devices as she wanders off to a stall of interest.

 

As casually as he can, he drops his own name in conversation once Morgan is out of earshot. The seller gives him a quizzical look as he feigns disinterest over the topic.

 

“You haven’t heard? The crown prince was assassinated weeks ago. They never caught the assassin, but everyone knows it was Plegia.” The woman sighs contemplatively. “Prince Chrom. A waste of a good man, in all honesty. Politics weren’t any good to his father either.”

 

He feels sick despite knowing full well what he’s getting himself into. “It might not be Plegia, for all we know. It could be some a ploy for something else.”

 

“Who knows? But those scum’re definitely plotting something, that’s to be sure. Heard they captured one of the prince’s own army— and one of the noble ones, to add to the fire.” She shakes her head. “Business is going slow these days. Best you look out for the guards too, what with the bounty hunt going on for the assassin and all. They’re interrogating every foreigner at chance in the harbour.”

 

Swallowing thickly, he thanks her for the goods and squirrels away as fast as he can. A wave of nausea hits him as he spies Ylissean colours from the corner of his eye, and he weaves through the flow of people with a stomach of lead.

 

“Morgan,” he calls, averting his gaze from the approaching guards. “Let’s go home.”

 

-

 

The door bangs open out of nowhere. Chrom drops the ladle, startled, and rushes out into the open. A blast of cold air tumbles into the mansion as the stink of smoke, ash and fire fills the air.

 

Robin enters in a flurry of blackened snow, bloodied and bruised. His robes are tattered, coat dripping in a thin, golden liquid that leaves a watery trail in the wake of his stiff, hushed gait. The bloody hue of his eyes flicker in a hazy, dangerous glow.

 

He spares no attention to Morgan as he makes his way upstairs, slamming the door behind him. The floorboards hiss in the golden ooze, steaming in the residue chill. The chandelier swings in the still breeze.

 

Cautiously, Chrom approaches the molten liquid, inspecting the corroded wood around the sinking stream of gold. It’s already evaporated into a weak trickle, leaving a shiny sheen over the crumbling remains of the floor.

 

“Don’t touch it.” Morgan warns. “You’ll get burnt.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“I don’t know. But he’ll fix it in the morning. He always has.”

 

So it isn’t the first time this has happened. He stares at the gold-eaten trail up the stairs, then at the warm bubbling in the kitchen. A cold puddle forms around the dirty bootprints, clustered from the melted snow.

 

He sighs. Heaving the pot away from the hearth, he scoops up a bowlful of hot stew and boils up a kettle of water. A bit of honey and ginger later he’s in front of Robin’s room, knocking softly. The sweet aroma of the tea mingles with the dizzying magic seeping out from underneath the door.

 

No answer. He grips and twists the doorknob, holding it close as he announces his presence.

 

“I’m coming in.”

 

It’s pitch black, just like the corridor leading up to the room. A forbidding aura looms before him as the candle flame withers away on the last stump of wax. He feels something shift, a disturbance in the shadows.

 

“Robin?”

 

He takes a bold step in, soles crunching on a scattering of hollow bone-like objects.

 

“…A moment.”

 

His voice betrays nothing. After what seems like an eternity, a light grows in one of the lanterns, warding the darkness around them and bringing the writhing presence along with it. Chrom finds a stool and sits, placing the stew and tea on the beside drawer.

 

The room is oddly unremarkable. Cluttered with books and instruments, but nothing wildly out of the ordinary. The only thing of note would be the piles of black feathers littered here and there around the furniture. A splatter of gold splashed over the inside of the door, newly eaten into the wood.

 

Robin turns tiredly in bed, a thick quilt lazily pulled over himself. His usually soft hair is mussed and dishevelled, falling over the pillow as he follows Chrom with his unyielding stare.

 

“Never known the meaning of ‘intrusion’, I take it.”

 

“You would’ve locked the door if you hated company that much.”

 

He would have clicked his teeth in annoyance if he had the strength to. “I recall you shouting at me not hours ago. If memory serves.”

 

“I’m sorry. I reacted rashly without consideration.” He taps the bowl. “My gesture of apology.”

 

Robin stops in mild surprise. Blinking slowly, he moves his gaze away.

 

“…Perhaps I did act out of line,” he states, “not knowing your experiences in life. I apologise.” He nods towards the stew. “And, thank you.”

 

Straining with effort, he props himself up from the bed, wincing. Chrom inevitably helps him manoeuvre the bowl to his lap where even so, he handles the spoon shakily, arms numb from his injuries.

 

He ends up with Chrom’s hand over his, steadying his movements over the cusp of his lip.

 

“You don’t have to do this.” He murmurs into the stew, chuckling drily. “Pathetic, aren’t I?”

 

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. In your state, it’s a wonder you’re even conscious.”

 

“Aren’t you going to ask me where I’ve been?”

 

“If you’re not comfortable with saying, I won’t ask.”

 

“Ever the chivalrous fool.”

 

“A fool not to notice. Your lips have gone blue, and you’re shivering in this stifling heat. I’d say you remove your undershirt; it’s drenched in sleet.”

 

“Feed me, clothe me,” he drawls sarcastically. “Will you bathe me, too?”

 

“I’ll draw the bath for you, if it’s what you wish for.”

 

He looks at him incredulously. “I was joking.”

 

“I was not. A hot bath would do you nothing but good.”

 

“Not now,” he yawns. “Not now.”

 

Gently, he leans over to pluck the unfinished meal from his lap, pressing the back of his hand over his forehead in the process. As suspected, he’s burning up. It barely shows on the flush of his cheeks but it’s there, the heat in his neck and the hotness in his breath.

 

He brings in a clean rag, a bucket of water and a pile of dry towels to leech the rain from his clothes. After doing his best in wiping the sweat from his limbs with his makeshift washcloth, he lays a wet rag on his forehead, adjusting it whenever it threatens to slip off.

 

Up close, Robin really is… young. From his stature, features to his daily antics, he can’t possibly be older than Chrom himself. Whatever had cost him the pursuits of youth had surely a part in the wounds etched into all parts of his body, old and new.

 

Such a fragile beauty, he muses. Like a brittle blade, honed and worked to the limit, prone to shatter at any moment. A weapon so graceful, yet so breakable. So tragic.

 

-

 

Caught between the boundaries of dream and reality, Robin floats into consciousness, familiar aching all over his body. Something on his head falls off as he turns to investigate the warmth radiating from his side.

 

The lantern he lit is growing low. Chrom is sitting slumped over in sleep, a bucket of water on the floor and a stack of used towels on the table. He realises, in the unpleasant throbbing of his headache, that the towel is the same as the lump that had rolled off his forehead.

 

A pleasant sensation warms him to the core, along with the rueful feeling of regret rooting itself in his chest. Oh, it’s the first time anyone has shown kindness to him, but surely, certainly, he’ll run away once he sees beyond the broken feathers amassed on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (screaming) sicKFICCCCC


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes it's been a week?? Oops??
> 
> I'm going to Australia (finally. no more summer heat) a few days later so either A) i will rush the updates before saturday or B) bring my laptop to spider hell, most probably the latter BUT one can hope
> 
> eek i'm so sorry about how slow i am! but i really loved writing this chapter! hope you like it!
> 
> also, thank you all for the comments as i religiously checked my inbox throughout my period of Not Updating, it really means a lot to me, seriously, thank you!

It happens late morning, when Chrom slogs his way downstairs for breakfast. Or rather, to cook breakfast, in the desolate household of two lazy occupants. As per usual, Morgan slides into the kitchen for the first taste of bacon. Her eyes widen as she pinches a greasy strip from the dish.

 

“It’s true. You really _are_ cursed.”

 

He sighs. “Maybe instead of stating the obvious, you could try not to break the eggs.”

 

“Your eyes. They’re… blue.”

 

That gets him to pause. Putting down the spatula, he hurries to get a decent look of himself from the reflection of a silver plate. She’s not lying. The colour of his eyes have returned to its original, deep shade.

 

He smiles despite himself. “It’s wearing off.”

 

“That’s not how it works. Curses are meant to stick forever, you know.”

 

Chrom stares at her with a face full of confusion. She groans inwardly.

 

“What I mean is, it’s not like the usual tomes that cost the user their mana. This?” She gestures vaguely. “It leeches off you like a parasite. Leave it, and it’ll fester. If you want to cure it, then it needs constant attention, or it’ll rebound and grow stronger again. There can’t be any trace of the spell left in the body. That’s why curses are often so hard to break; not a lot can afford hiring a mage for years on end. It’d take half of the royal treasury to undo a curse of this level.”

 

His mouth runs dry. “Are you implying—?”

 

“Who else would it be?”

 

“But it’s only been months!”

 

“Exactly!”

 

“Then why?”

 

“So much time spent together,” she sings, swooning. “So much time spent,” she grins nastily, “in private.”

 

He blushes a furious pink. “I- we don’t!”

 

“Away from prying eyes, away from sight.” She dances away as Chrom makes a desperate grab for her. “What do you do in the study every night, I wonder? Does he teach you magic over the fireplace? Read to you as you clear the dust out of his bookshelves? Or when you go into his room in the hours after midnight, thinking that nobody’s watching—”

 

The sound of footsteps brings them both to a screeching halt. Still weary from sleep, Robin makes his way disdainfully down the stairs, glaring at the bickering duo.

 

“What are you two doing, making such a racket in the morning?”

 

“Nothing.” Morgan dutifully ducks aside as Chrom balances the plates on his arm. “Just talking about how close you and Chrom have been.”

 

Robin sits at the table, waiting for breakfast to be served. “And what about it?”

 

“You’ve been _very_ close lately.”

 

“And?”

 

She leans over the table, giggling with devilish delight.

 

“Have you kissed him yet?”

 

Chrom nearly drops his toast. Robin continues, unaffected, twirling the silverware absentmindedly.

 

“Morgan, don’t be crude.”

 

She pouts. “You’re no fun at all.”

 

“Though,” he cuts a perfect arc out of the butter. “If he wanted to, I wouldn’t mind indulging him in his other,” he cocks a brow at her, “desires.”

 

He’s imagining things, but for a second he thinks he sees Robin’s hot stare sweep over him, boldly making contact before returning to Morgan in mock challenge.

 

“Huh? Huh???” She gasps, scandalised. “Oh, ew! Get a room!”

 

“You started it. Take responsibility.”

 

“Ew, Robin! You’re disgusting!”

 

“Want to see something more disgusting?”

 

“No!”

 

“Too bad. Chrom was looking forward to it, you know.”

 

His neck burns as if it’s on fire. “I wasn’t!”

 

“Ugh! You two are making me sick!” She gets up and shoves the toast in her mouth. “I’m going to go wash my eyes out.”

 

She storms out of the room, grumbling. Robin watches her go with a faint tinge of amusement in his smile.

 

“Breakfast in peace, at long last.”

 

“You say that as if you weren’t the one teasing her.”

 

The trill of the birds outside trickles in as Robin crunches on the bread thoughtfully. The harsh morning light sets the snow-white of his hair aglow with luminance.

 

“Did I bother you?”

 

“Not really.” He commends himself for not stuttering.

 

He laughs. A short huff of air, nothing more. Chrom would die twice to hear it again.

 

“I’m glad.” His bare arm grazes Chrom’s as he piles the plates into his suddenly weakening grip. “Truly.”

 

 _For what?_ He narrowly tips out of the way as Robin leaves his seat, a moment too close, too warm, the prospect of physical touch so dangerous that he can feel each word on his skin.

 

“I’ll see you later.”

 

His breath is still warm on his neck. Wet, delicate, the ghost of his presence lingering after a fleeting appearance. A reminder, a suggestion.

 

Chrom revels in the giddiness frothing within him and realises, lightheaded, that he is in love.

 

-

 

Emm.

 

Taken captive and hostage. Up for ransom in exchange for the Fire Emblem. He learns this from a devastating trip to the market, where he also learns that Maribelle has been lost to Plegia.

 

The jarring fact eats away at him all day. His sister is going to die tonight if his father doesn’t send anyone to get her. He highly doubts he will, with Emmeryn’s frail health and all. Such is the cruelty of war.

 

He can’t take it anymore. Despite his comfort, his safety here, and despite Robin’s kindness, it doesn’t sit well in his gut waiting idly. The suspense is killing him.

 

He should tell Robin he’s leaving.

 

It pains him to know that he might never see him again. The act of pushing the heavy library doors open takes a dreadful amount of effort. And to his mild disappointment, the news doesn’t incite as much of a reaction from Robin as he had thought it would. His response is simple.

 

“Why?”

 

“It’s my sister. She’s been taken hostage by the Plegians.”

 

“You’re going to save her, aren’t you?”

 

“I have to.”

 

“You have nothing.” It wasn’t an insult. Just cold, hard truth.

 

“You’re right. But I must.”

 

Robin inhales, shutting his eyes in contemplation. Chrom can almost taste the disapproval rolling off him in waves.

 

“If you insist so badly.” He sighs. “Here.”

 

He twists the ring off his index finger and places it in front of him. It’s a simple band of iron and silver, wound thrice on one side to give the vague impression of a harp-like crest.

 

“Take it. You’ll be able to find your way back, no matter how many concealing spells I’ve put on the house. The door will always be unlocked to you.”

 

The ring lies between them, blemished and worn. He’s seen Robin wear it every day. The surface is well-polished, darkened elegantly over a decade of use.

 

“I can’t possibly.”

 

“It’s infused with an abundance of spells. It’ll grant you protection, at least.” He slides it towards him. “If not for my peace of mind.”

 

It fits snugly around his finger. Chrom swallows. “Thank you.”

 

“Return safely.”

 

“I will.”

 

-

 

He trudges to the border on foot. The sands shift uncertainly before him, pouring off the cliffs and piling atop broken ruins. Enemy camp is a lot larger than he’d expected, scattered among the rising platforms of sandstone, little bobs of fire signalling the patrols.

 

Sunset casts a low glow to the sight around him. It’s not immensely dark, but it’s good enough. There’s at least a few hundred people here in number, all prowling about the tents in a multitude of activities. He hopes the bulk of them are in the mess tent and circles the boundary, looking for a target.

 

In the camouflage of the evening shadows, he waits till the guard pops the cap off the whisky bottle. Then, he tenses, uncoils, and springs into motion.

 

He’s unarmed. So is the guard. A miscalculation on his part, the bottle shatters on his wrist on impact just as he aims for the head. Months of disuse have dulled his skill, but it comes back at the arid sting of glass on skin. He whips around, smashes the man’s face in without so much of a pained cry and shoves him onto the ground, delivering a nasty blow to the back of his head.

 

With practiced movements, he strips the armour off him and sets the sword to his belt. The sturdy weight is a reassurance in the sea of soldiers around him.

 

The gash on his arm hurts. He wraps a strip of torn cloth around it, hoping to stop the copious bleeding. The red seeps into the dirty, matted fabric.

 

A couple of soldiers pass by, murmuring among themselves on their way to the mess tent. By complete accident, Chrom catches Emmeryn’s name on their sluggish, rolling tongues. He edges closer from behind the tent, straining to hear more, and reprimands himself for his foolishness. He doesn’t understand a lick of Plegian.

 

_If only Robin were here._

 

The blood on his arm trickles to the ring glistening above his knuckle, tinting it the shade of mulled wine.

 

He has no choice. He’s going to have to comb the entire camp. Stealth isn’t something that comes naturally to him. His progress is slow and unsteady, hindered by his inability to effectively navigate. Every jostle out of his field of vision sends him itching for his sword.

 

Daylight is dying and he has to hurry. He removes his helm, goaded by the sweaty heat in the desert. As he does, a patrol of soldiers strides past him, just as he looks up to lift the lump of metal off his head.

 

He’s made a grave mistake. A spark of recognition flares through the group and in a heartbeat, one of them barks a shrill yelp to the camp. Almost immediately, a horn sounds in the distance. His sword slides out of its sheath before the soldiers can react.

 

The blade hisses. The bodies fall to the ground, limp. He’s too late. Already he can hear the army pouring into camp, boots thumping on dry dirt.  His grip adjusts on the sword and he falls into stance.

 

He moves. The dull iron comes alive under his control, singing a growing rhythm in his blood, beckoning for a taste of blood. The first soldier pounds through between tents, eager to strike. Chrom sweeps a foot behind him and flicks his wrist.

 

Like a knife through butter. Skin tears cleanly from bone. The second falls upon him and he ducks, by a single breeze, whirring to nip the man in the neck. His motion is fluid as he catches a jagged blade by a chink in his sword, wrenching it away to split the soldier’s skull into two. It makes a sickening crack as it hits the ground.

 

An arrow whistles. He spins to cleave it into half, skimming the dull edge of an axe in a sharp pirouette. When he pivots, the world tips with him, dizzying and exhilarating, the glint of the blade’s edge a sliver of death. Everything he touches crumples like wet paper.

 

Yet the thrill fades with every passing second. For each kill, another arises to take its place. He can’t do this forever. Certainly, not when he has a sister to save. He is one and the enemy is many. He has to get out of the clearing.

 

A final turn of his blade. Dodge and parry. His arm throbs in throe with the pulse in his throat. A hint of metal shimmers in the distance and the roar for battle pushes ever closer.

 

His grip falters. A cluster of spearheads shriek in the air, bronze-tipped and deadly. The blunt front of a hammer demands his attention. A few paces away, a soldier brandishes his sword.

 

He’s going to die.

 

The wind heats next to his ear. The next instant a shot of lightning slams into the horde, crackling with power. Flesh crumbles into glowing embers.

 

A flash of white stirs the burnt silence. Gold burnishes over the canvas of black, the plaited thread falling suspended as Chrom gapes in apparent disbelief. His eyes, stark scarlet against the dark of night, brim with animosity. Electricity simmers in the fabric of his sleeve.

 

He lowers his sword, stunned. “What are you doing here?”

 

Robin bristles angrily at him. “What do you mean what am I doing here? I should be asking you this instead!”

 

His footwork is impeccable. Not a moment lost, a second wasted. Back pressed against Chrom’s, he saunters, blasts of energy searing on his fingertips. A steep coldness surges into the earth as he rips thunder from the sky.

 

 “—I hear you call me, loud and clear. So I come,” he lurches to incinerate a throwing spear, “and find you in this hot, steaming mess.”

 

“Call you? I didn’t—” he balks, remembering. “Was it the ring?”

 

“Why did you think I gave it to you, you blithering idiot?”

 

“I thought it was warded!”

 

“It was. You just broke them all.” He burns through an incoming swing. “Who the hell is your sister, anyways? Where is she?”

 

A pack of armoured sentries rushes discreetly past him. “There!”

 

He chases after them, but Robin is quicker. Nimbler. A streak of lightning coalesces into his grip as he launches himself over Chrom’s shoulder, the end of his foot levelling on a guard’s spear to ram the bolt into the helm. The man falls and he whips around, slashing his makeshift blade in a scorching arc.

  
Not before ridge of a shield catches him on the chin. He doesn’t flinch. His fingers dig into the hard wood and he jerks his arm forward, forcing his way through. Electricity fractals across the party, a crisp black trail in its wake. Molten iron drips and cools. It smells of burnt cinders.

 

“I didn’t know you were that much of a fighter.”

 

He wipes the spit from his bruised lip. “You’re not so bad with a sword yourself.” The clamour from the soldiers snaps him back into focus. “Get behind me.”

 

A ball of fire grows alight in the well of his palm. A gale rises as he hurls it into the crowd, muttering, and staggers. Upon impact, the flames scatter and swells, hungrily swallowing any kindling it finds, dead or alive.

 

Chrom observes with nauseating curiosity as the inferno rolls across the enemy lines.

 

“It won’t hold.” Robin grits out, gratefully latching onto Chrom’s outstretched hand. “Find your sister.”

 

“She’s here.”

 

The tent behind them rustles. Supporting Robin on one shoulder, he lifts open the tent flap, where Robin’s breath hitches with mixed emotion.

 

Emmeryn is sitting on a threadbare cot, hands folded neatly on her lap. No shackles hold her save for her poor health. Her robes are dirtied from the rough handling of the guards, blonde hair matted in a bundle around her.

 

She stands as Chrom sheathes his sword, her worried frown dissipating in his presence. “I’m relieved to know you’re still alive.”

 

“Emm,” he holds himself a step back from embracing her. “How did you know it was me?”

 

“Oh, Chrom. I would recognise you anywhere.”

 

“We need to go. The guards are going to come soon.”

 

“Chrom,” she chides. “And who is this young man here?”

 

“He’s—” he hesitates, “a friend. His name is Robin.”

 

“A friend, you say.” She ruminates, turning her gaze away from Chrom. “I am Emmeryn, sister to my dear brother here, but I suspect you know this already. Words cannot express my gratitude for your assistance.”

 

He shifts his weight. “The pleasure is mine, Exalt.”

 

“Not quite exalt yet.” She locks her eyes to him. He pauses awkwardly as she scans him unblinkingly, the corners of her mouth lifting into a knowing smile. “Robin, was it? What an ironic twist of fate, should you and my brother meet.”

 

“…Milady.”

 

Chrom attends their exchange in confusion as she dips her head in understanding. Robin seems to flinch, caught between an internal struggle. There’s something he’s not getting at here.

 

“Do what you will with me. I trust my brother’s judgement as my own.”

 

“Hold still. It will be unsavoury, at worst.”

 

He raises his hand and hovers it over her forehead.

 

“Chrom, catch her.”

 

He darts forward in alarm, scooping her up just as her knees give way. By the time he opens his mouth to protest, Robin’s already out of the tent, gesturing for Chrom to follow. A single guard stands stiffly in front of him, the visor obscuring his face.

 

“I’ve cast a spell over him. He’ll bring your sister back to the castle.”

 

He scoots back warily. “Are you sure?”

 

“They’re targeting you. Most likely, they’ve been given orders to kill you on the spot. I won’t be able to cover you both in that case.” He turns to Chrom, biting his lip. “Trust me, just this once.”

 

He’s still unsure, but he complies. The guard groans incomprehensibly as he piles Emmeryn onto the half-melted gauntlets, bows his head towards Robin and leaps off with inhuman speed. It’s then that Chrom notices the fatal wound burrowed through where the heart should have been, still fresh with blood.

 

Emmeryn would not have liked to see that.

 

Without warning, Robin thrusts him aside right as a javelin hurtles into the ground next to his feet. Several silhouettes emerge under the gathering clouds, obscuring what little moonlight littered on the camp.

 

“Reinforcements.” He flings a jet of fire in the same direction, the sole of his boot scraping in the dirt. “Draw your sword. We’re going to leave.”

 

He needs no second reminder. He sprints fuelled on sheer adrenaline, a fury of magic bombing his footsteps from their furious efforts. Completely by instinct, he slashes and carves a way through the onslaught, stepping in sync with the clap of lightning, skidding to deflect a hard blow to Robin’s head.

 

They’re out. Beaten, battered, but out regardless, a heap of flames where the camp had been. His entire body aches with tiredness as he bears the brunt of an axe with the flat of his sword.

 

The desert night would have been beautiful without the bloodshed and the pain. The stars are unmarred by fog, the rocks void of colour. The shine of his blade reflects onto the ground as he slices through a soldier’s neck.

 

A familiar voice echoes from the valley below. Chrom reels, peering over the cliff, and his heart nearly stops.

 

Oh, gods. It’s Lissa. Her twintails are unmistakable. She’s clutching a golden shield in her arms, voice quivering as the Plegian wyverns soar above her head.

 

“She doesn’t know we’ve saved Emm.” He whispers in horror. “She’s snuck the Emblem with her.”

 

“Who?”

 

“My younger sister.” He looks on helplessly as Gangrel cackles in the distance, commanding for capture. Too far away, on the other side of the valley. He’s not going to make it in time.

 

A shrill shriek rips from her throat as the army surrounds her, cornering her up the cliff.

 

“Surrender, princeling, before your sister falls to her death!”

 

The crest of the enemy battalion mounts with every foe fallen. He’s running with all his remaining strength, off the sloping hills and crashing into battle with wild desperation. The ragged edge of Plegian iron tears at his wounds as he plunges into danger. Robin sees this, shears the soldier’s arm clean off and hauls him back by the collar, infuriated.

 

“What,” he hisses, “do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Robin, I’m so sorry.” He pleads. “I have to save her.”

 

In a split decision of abandon, Robin shoves him into the claws of a dying wyvern and utters for it to rise. It obeys, abruptly, hardened muscles seizing into sudden motion as the wind is knocked out of Chrom’s lungs.

 

“I’ll get your sister. Now go!”

 

It’s no use. The wyvern crushes him in its grasp and shudders to its feet. He struggles against his constraints, watching in fearful apprehension as Robin crouches, steps, and takes off in a leap of faith.

 

Sleek, feathered wings rupture from his back. His thighs tense as curved claws grip the roughened stone, shattering it as he lunges into the air.

 

Lissa screams, teeters, and falls.

 

It lands. He snatches her mid-flight, talons digging into her shoulders as he beats his wings to brake sharply upwards. Chrom exhales in relief.

 

His elation is short lived. Moments later, cold terror runs through him as a cannon booms, and the black figure plummets from the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> electric is effective against flying type
> 
> it's also 3 am good night everybody


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know. i said. regular updates. it's been months. i cannot express in words how sorry i am. like, gosh, thank you so much for bearing with me, it really does mean so much to me that you're still sticking despite me never updating
> 
> excuses- went to australia then japan, snapped my old laptop in two with my chrom strength (half of this chapter was on there and I kind of gave up then), then got so busy i completely forgot and was wracked with guilt for months. 
> 
> now due to Some Circumstances that those kept up with the news might be able to guess where my location is no school for a week (yay?) and so a (really and super sweet!!!) sudden request for translation of my fics came in and spurred me to do this so without further ado: thank you. seriously. here it is. my baby chrobin

It’s dark. Not a cloud in the black, inky sky, stars amassing on the horizon as midnight bleeds over the forest. Chrom shuffles, adjusts his arms, and turns over again, and though the stiff mattress has been broken in by months of wear it still feels like it’s digging into his bones, his wounds.

 

The events of the day plague him to no end. What can he do but worry? He blinks at the alabaster ceiling, wearily, and twists the ring above the knuckle of his index finger. If he called to him now, would he be able to hear?

 

Silence.

 

He’s so lost in his thoughts that the first gentle thump at the front door jolts him out of his bed. A tender gash tears in the process; he hisses in pain, and pauses, wondering if it’s all a part of his imagination. Seconds tick by in baited breath. There it is again, the soft creak of the floorboards, the dull, heavy sound of lent weight sinking into the wood.

 

Logic tells him to get out. His hand rests on the door handle, held back by an instinctual, primordial fear. He hears a slow rhythm making its slow way up the stairs, one foot after the other, sluggishly dragging itself upwards.

 

Something brushes against his door. A long moment and it is gone, leaving only the sigh of footsteps lumbering on. That too, soon, is gone. Chrom swallows. He pushes down. The door clicks open.

 

Starlight spits through the crack between door and frame, a pale apparition trickling into the pitch corridor. He lights a candle and extinguishes the match with an absent flick of the wrist. The flame douses a short distance around him in an orange glow.

 

The walls are wrecked with golden ooze. Ichor, smattered over every surface in uneven strokes. The paint cracked in streaks, indents in the floor where hooked claws have sunken in. Split floorboards, darkened as if burnt. A looming sense of dread floods the space. He treads on across the soaked wood. The candle flame flickers, fragile.

 

He draws near. He hesitates. Grip tightening on the candle hold, he raises his arm, knocks without expectation, and enters.

 

Immediately, he’s assaulted by the arid scent of blood. It leaves a coppery aftertaste on his tongue that he decides he doesn’t like, amplified by the utter darkness that is Robin’s room. A brooding presence lays before him. He can feel the muted warmth seeping from it, bleeding into the night chill.

 

Where the light hits, he can barely make out the shape of a giant, serpentine creature. Ridges flattened against its scales, the ragged tips of its wings scraping along the ceiling. He watches as it coils in on itself, shifting until the curved tip of a horn comes into view.

 

Hidden in shadow, a single eye nictitates, hue as bright as a fresh drop of blood.

 

“Child of Naga,” Robin speaks. “I should have known.”

 

He doesn’t wait for Chrom to answer. “I know. You couldn’t have told if you wanted to. Don’t worry, you sisters are safe.” He stops. Chrom imagines him licking his lips. “I lost the Emblem.”

 

“I couldn’t have cared less.”

 

He gives a low laugh. “What a prince you are.”

 

“I brought you into this.” Tentatively. “I’m sorry.”

 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. I chose this for myself.”

 

“If not for me…”

 

“Then what? Would I have been any better off rotting in this house? Tell me. This form.” He makes a sudden motion. The candle goes out in the wind. Beneath the smooth ivory of his horns, jagged teeth and bone.

 

“Are you not afraid?”

 

“No.”

 

Robin rumbles in dissatisfaction. Chrom places a hand on his scales. It’s warm to the touch.

 

“This curse, whatever it is, I’ll find a way to break it. And until I do, I’ll never leave your side, even if it takes years, decades, my entire life. I swear it, by Na—”

 

Drowsiness washes over him and he crumples to the ground, caught by a well-positioned wing. Robin lifts his talon from Chrom’s forehead and gently nudges him with his jaw.

 

_A promise you will never keep._

 

He moves until he’s piled around Chrom’s unconscious body, a wing draped over his bandaged torso. He rests his head beside him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the quiet sound of his breathing.

 

For just this moment. He’ll take what he can get.

 

Until time sets the world in motion again.

 

Until morning comes.

 

-

 

_There is no wound on you that I cannot heal._

 

The sky is a brilliant blue. Robin gasps, chest tearing with each ragged breath. The balls of his feet barely touch the ground as he snaps a broken twig in half.

 

_No bones broken,_

The arrow lodged in his ankle sears with pain. Blood bubbles freely from the wound, trickling down his foot to the ground. The grass wilts wherever he steps.

 

_Flesh torn,_

 

A howl resounds and he remembers his mother, torn savagely into ribbons before grief sparked into fear. Her throat slit mid-scream. It hurts, it aches. He hears them shout from a distance. The rustle of leaves, the stinging smell of charred wood. They’re burning the forest down.

 

_Spears driven into your mortal, pitiful body._

 

The forest ends abruptly into a cliff. He sees nothing but a dizzyingly blue sky, the cliff sharp and unyielding. A pebble skids off and he doesn’t hear it drop. A bird calls from below, its cry echoing over the woods.

 

He whips his head around, catching a sliver of a loaded crossbow.

 

_You and I are one and the same._

 

He falls.

 

He spends a heartbeat, two, grasping at nothing. His wings unfurl in a rush of wind and he twists mid-air, a glint of metal grazing his cheek. Another sails past beneath his feet.

 

He lands, clumsily, skidding onto the dry dirt. The friction shears some skin off and he grits his teeth. The throbbing in his ankle has mostly subsided, the fletching stained golden with blood. He pulls it out in one swift movement. Almost immediately, his skin starts to reknit, and he stares in morbid fascination as flesh weaves itself over what had been a clean shot through bone.

 

Shaking the dirt out from his tail feathers, he folds his wings to his back and wanders in search for water. He finds a stream close enough and he dips in to wash off the blood and grime off his clothes and skin. It’s too quiet. He’s not quite used to being alone. He dries everything with a small ball of flame from his fingertips, frowning at the hole the arrow left in his boot.

 

“Can you teach me to do that?”  
  


He jolts in surprise, nearly razing the ground near him with a bolt of lightning. Thank the gods he didn’t. A girl, perhaps eight, nine, is standing behind him, curiously peering at where he had extinguished the flame between his fingers.

 

She’s too thin to be healthy. The rags she has on may be faded, but he’d recognise those six eyes anywhere. Her hair is a mess, cut short by a blade too blunt. She could sell him back to his father, he thinks. If Validar didn’t kill her first.

 

“It depends.” He says carefully. “Where do you come from?”

 

She shrugs. “The village off to the east. It’s not one of those big, fancy ones though.”

 

“How far east?”

 

“If I brought you there, will you teach me magic?”

 

“I’ll consider.” He takes off his coat, feeling the sun on his skin for the first time. “Lead the way.”

 

-

 

Robin wakes with a start. Sunlight paints the opposite wall through a crack in the curtain, a harsh line splitting the room in half. Wincing, he pulls himself up, muscles sore and limbs weak. He then realises the blanket covering him to the shoulder, the glass of water on the bedside drawer, feathery carnage on the floor swept neatly aside.

 

If he took the effort to look, he’d see the indent in the sheets beside him, rumpled just enough to know he was there.

 

Toes gingerly finding purchase on the floor, Robin stands unsteadily. He downs the glass of water and numbly strips from the thin nightshirt- did Chrom dress him in that?- to find a shirt without much thought. He looks at himself in the vanity.

 

White hair, pale skin, the dearth of scars on his back and arms. Nobody would have believed him if he said he’d been trained to kill. Nevertheless, he buttons the shirt up, dons a light coat and worms into his boots.

 

He heads downstairs.

 

It’s late afternoon. He’s slept through the entire morning, apparently. And breakfast, if there had been any. He makes out two figures crossing swords(sticks?) in the garden and makes way for them. Morgan notices first and lowers the wooden stick she has in her sweaty clutches. Chrom does the same and lifts his gaze.

 

His eyes are so blue, is Robin’s first thought. He’s had a grasp of his original appearance since day one, and yet. He’s at a loss for words.

 

“You’re awake.”

 

“Yes,” he focuses, trying to dredge up words from the tip of his tongue. “Yes, I am.” He turns to Morgan. “What are you doing, taking lessons from the prince?”

 

She laughs. “He’s a better teacher than you anyhow.”

 

“I hope she’s not causing you any trouble.”

 

“Certainly not. She’s a wonderful pupil.”

 

He eyes her suspiciously. “You can say that again.”

 

“Better than I ever was.”

 

“Oh, I could never imagine.” Robin drawls, smiling. “Enlighten me?”

 

“I suppose we _could_ take a break.”

 

“Are we going to spar later?”

 

Robin raises an eyebrow. “Depends on whether you get your tomes memorised by tonight.”

 

Morgan furrows her brows as if debating on a retort. An accusing look from Robin sends her sticking her tongue out and running off back to the house. He closes in onto Chrom.

 

Chrom’s breathing quickens. Robin doesn’t notice.

 

“There’s somewhere I want to show you.” Robin says, taking him by the wrist. Chrom concedes with a weak noise of agreement.

 

“Where?”

 

“My hometown, if you would.”

 

His hometown. Plegia. He follows Robin inside, where he switches up the dial and walks out again, this time in a small clearing. This is where Morgan comes from every morning, he recalls. A fresh breeze rolls past and he looks back. It’s a quaint little cabin, old and long abandoned. Robin must not have used it in a long time.

 

He dutifully accompanies Robin without conversation. The walk is short, and the path soon opens into a wide field blooming with flowers. All white, dotting the landscape and over the hills where a lake shallowly laid.

 

They slow to a halt at the centre of the field. The flowers sway in the occasional draft, a scatter of petals drifting along the wind.

 

Robin tilts his head to the sky. “Right on time. They’re here.”

 

“What’s here?”

 

“The battalions. There,” he gestures vaguely to the west, “that’s the border. Every day, hundreds of them, back and forth in this fruitless war.”

 

“It’s been going on since I can remember.”

 

“Twenty years. Since the hierophant’s child was lost.”

 

“We’d be the same age, if he were still alive. Sometimes, I wonder, if anything could have been different on that fateful day. He’d be royalty, I suppose. I would have met him on my travels. I wonder if we would have gotten along.”

 

Robin stares into nothing in particular. “…I wonder, huh.”

 

A shrill whistle reverberates through the forest. The cry of a wyvern sounds as a cluster of soldiers draw near, and in their wake, little black dots falling to the forest below.

 

“What are those?”

 

“Bombs, they’re called. A Plegian invention, but see those colours? Ylissean blue. They’re dropping them on every settlement in sight within the border. Including Morgan’s village.”

 

He clasps his hands together and mutters an incantation. Poised as if pulling on invisible threads, he releases the spell, and the air above the forest erupts in fire. Several wyverns drop from flight.

 

“It never ends. You’d think if I took down enough they’d stop sending them. Instead they litter in more mages, more archers, bigger, more powerful bombs. And they all end up dead anyways, so what’s the point?”

 

He grinds his heel into a patch of grass. The skies are clear with clouds of black smoke dispersing into nothingness.

 

Chrom etches the view into memory. The slope of his shoulders, the sharpness of his gaze. He seems so tired. World-weary. Like the weight of the world was balanced precariously on his shoulders alone.

 

“You didn’t bring me here to watch you strike them down, did you?”

 

Robin faces him, wistful, and all of a sudden Chrom regrets asking. This is goodbye, he realises. I’m never going to see him again.

 

“You have a duty to perform. We were never meant to meet.”

 

“Robin, no, I—”

 

A voice calls for him from below. He turns to see a familiar face emerging from the path. Faces, in fact.

 

“Lissa?”

 

Excited shouting. Frederick runs up to him with terrifying speed, as does Lissa in her ridiculous metal frock. He welcomes them with equal amounts of tears and laughter, of course. Though not with a sinking premonition in his gut. He looks back behind him.

 

And, as quickly as he had met him, Robin is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (((incoherent spluttering


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finish take this sorry for Long Wait BUT IT IS DONE
> 
> dear nix, my lovely beta that barreled into my life like robin did with chrom, muah
> 
> thank you all so much for sticking with this fic's terrible update schedules! i wanted to write but midterms said No so i said fuck you i'll write anyways. anyway Here you Go my life blood

The door clicks shut.

 

Morgan lifts her head from the couch. They exchange glances and he doesn’t need to say anything. She knows. She opens her mouth and Robin only sighs and smiles.

 

“You know it couldn’t have lasted forever.”

 

He’s reassuring himself. He swipes a finger absently along the tabletop and finds that it’s clean. And since when was he so used to tidied dishes and swept floors?

 

He refuses to look at the room above the staircase and throws her a set of keys.

 

“The house, the study. It’s yours now. I made notes on your further studies; you’ll find them on my desk. If anyone asks, you’ve apprenticed under my name. Should be enough, I hope.”

 

She fumbles to catch it and holds the lump of metal as if it were a piece of hot coal. Robin nears the dial by the door and it stops on the black quarter.

 

The entire house shudders. A cold breeze seeps into the living room. Even Morgan can sense it, and he feels his blood thrumming in response.

 

His palms are clammy and he’s been digging his fingers into them for far too long. He’s trembling, he realises, and inhales silently. It’s hard to swallow when he’s so tense.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“…Thank you, Morgan.” Beyond the door is darkness and the smell of ash and salt. “For everything.”

 

-

 

“Chrom, this is urgent, you can’t just-” Lissa purses her lips in frustration, “go searching for something that doesn’t even exist. There can’t just _be_ a mansion in the woods next to Ylisstol, we have _patrols_.”

 

“I know it was there. I’ve lived there for the better half of the year, you’ve seen him too, he saved you when you fell–“

 

“Yes, I get it, but they’re trying to summon the literal fell dragon with the Emblem and unless you stick it through with Falchion the entire continent is going to sink.” She crosses her arms. “Is your imaginary boyfriend more important than the fate of the world?”

 

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

 

“Which is why you should shut your mouth and go.” She reaches for the ill-fitting scabbard on her waist and hands it to him. “They’ve already started the ritual. Grima is going to rise from the seas any second now and we have less than a day to get there.”

 

Hesitant, he takes a hold on the hilt and hooks it to his belt. “I suppose so.”

 

The sensation of Falchion on his hip should be a relief, yet all he can think about is the unsteady way it hangs off him. He’s unsure of his swordsmanship. It seems like a battle so far away he can’t bear to imagine the details. And Lissa exhales in apparent relief.

 

The Shepherds travel in grave silence. Not the kind of ominous stillness that hovers drearily in the air, it’s the awkward loss of words when Chrom tries to talk, and fails. He really should explain his absence to them. But all those months condensed into nothing but a story, it feels wrong. Like he’s giving out a piece of himself he has never quite understood.

 

As if talking about it would break the façade. He’ll hold on to those memories for as long as he can.

 

Night falls. They don’t set up camp. If there is any indication of where the Dragon’s Table is, it’s the pillar of soft light slicing the storm clouds in half. The forest evens out into a rocky beach and as Chrom pushes forward he finds himself away from the group.

 

Only Lissa is with him. He turns. An invisible barrier seems to be blocking everyone from moving ahead. Frederick is pushing at it with all his might. It doesn’t seem to be breaking any time soon, so he waves at them to stop.

 

It’s something to do with his blood, probably. He looks at the spire in the middle of the sea and looks back at his sister. Her expression insists she come along and he shakes his head. As gently as he can, he shoves her back and solidifies his decision with a firm “no”.

 

He walks along the meandering pathway raised above the ocean. Curiously, he doesn’t see any sign of life. No dragon, no army. Just a fragile pillar of light haloing the lonely tower in the centre of the sea. Occasionally, a wave dashes along the path and wets the hem of his trousers. The warmth of the seawater grows cold quickly.

 

The front gates give no resistance. The hinges creak in a familiar tone and he takes his time spiralling up the stairs. The quiet is making him uneasy. There is frost on the walls, even though it’s nowhere near winter.

 

He slows as he reaches the massive stone doors. They aren’t closed all the way, so he knows someone’s already inside. Gingerly, he touches his chilled fingertips onto the carvings and leans into the hall.

 

He’s momentarily dazzled by the bright, bright gleam of moonlight.

 

No blood, no corpses, no runes. There’s an altar and a throne. The Emblem lies on the floor, gemstones cracked but still glowing. He lifts his eyes to meet those of, of- oh.

 

From his perch, Robin rises. His snow-kissed hair, to the steep slide of his neck, dipped in silver and starlight. He cracks open a crimson eye and the corners of his mouth lift.

 

And oh, Chrom couldn’t have moved even if he wanted to. He looks like something straight out of a myth, carrying the divine in the deliberate, sweeping steps he takes. His footsteps make no sound on the pristine marble.

 

Chrom falters out of spellbound trance to utter a single word:

 

“Why?”

 

“I was summoned.”

 

“Summoned.” Chrom repeats. “You’re Grima’s vessel.”

 

“Not yet. Soon. I’ve been staving it off, waiting for you.”

 

“That means," he says quietly, "I was meant to kill you.”

 

“You were.” Robin agrees, advancing. "There's not much time left."

 

He sucks in a sharp breath.

 

Robin takes a bold step forward, his faint smile dizzying as he closes the gap, and reaches to clasp his hand with Chrom’s. So warm, so cold, so hot. He slides his palm downwards till he’s thumbing at the ring above Chrom’s knuckle, the heat pressed between their chests aflame.

 

“It looks good on you.” He twists at the ring, leaning in further. “Fit for a king.”

 

Without warning, Robin’s weight is straining against their entwining palms, toes barely grazing the floor. Chrom has barely the time to react.

 

His soft lips ghost on the corner of his mouth. Chaste, desperate. Tastes like an eternity, but the moment is fleeting, and in his stunned shock an arm snakes by his waist and wraps its fingers around the hilt.

 

The screech of steel snaps Chrom back to the present. The voice of the blade sings deafeningly between them.

 

His eyes widen. Robin draws back, turns the sacred fang towards himself, and gives him a final, pleading look.

 

“Don’t- you can’t. There must be another way.”

 

“In another life, maybe. In another life.”

 

He adjusts his wrists. Chrom stumbles, screams, and he doesn’t remember the rest.

 

Later, as his sister recounts to him, he was found kneeling in front of a flutter of feathers. Falchion was speared into the floor and they’d struggled to peel off his death grip on the sword. His entire body was drenched in sweat but his skin was stone cold.

 

He had passed out afterwards. When he woke up, he blinked at the ceiling and realised he didn’t recognise where he was. He’d knocked over the warm glass of water and fumbled with the palace curtains.

 

Gone, gone, gone.

 

-

 

Sometimes, Chrom wonders, if it had all been a dream.

 

He can no longer find the mansion, nor the house by the port, nor the cottage by the tiny Plegian village. Emmeryn resigned out of ill health and left Chrom as Exalt. There was no big commotion about the defeat of the fell dragon. It had happened so quickly, after all.

 

The Ylisse-Plegia war came to a close. The hierophant had apparently been found dead, struck by thunder and washed onto shore. All Chrom has left is the ring and the wakeful fits he has on stormy nights, the phantom sound of claws sinking into the floorboards echoing from his dreams.

 

Ylisse isn’t rebuilt immediately per his efforts. The borders are still as messy as they were and he has to deal with all the lives and land lost to war. This, in turn, leads him to rumours of a travelling mage dealing in all kinds of miracles.

 

No surprise there. Morgan seems to be shocked that Chrom remembers her at all and he scrutinises her obvious growth spurt with a strange sense of pride. She’s a little hesitant to join Ylisse. That’s okay, Chrom thinks. These things take time.

 

Rage and confusion nearly raze the country down when, eventually, he announces he’s adopting his next heir.

 

The aching doesn’t entirely fade. But surely, and steadily, it does over the changing of the seasons.

 

Another year.

 

Another year.

 

And another, and another, and another.

 

He ruffles Morgan’s hair as he makes his way to court. She responds with the usual lukewarm jab and secretly blooms in honey sweet giddiness.

 

-

 

Then one day, a soldier runs into the throne room and tells Chrom a mage from the sands of Plegia demands an audience. Chrom tells him to bar them but apparently they’ve blasted their way through the royal guard.

 

Morgan quirks her lips and puts down her book.

 

He’s prepared to be both impressed and annoyed by the intruder. The doors fling open in a display of unnecessary grandeur.

 

The gust of wind that results shears through Robin’s coat like the first gale of spring. He’s flaunting his wings in the air, sunlight scattered across his feathers, and all the guards are cowering in the hallway.

 

Chrom immediately bolts to his feet. Adrenaline is making its way at breakneck speeds through his veins. His heart is roaring in his throat.

 

“Where have you been?”

 

Robin laughs. Chrom can’t help but flush in excitement.

 

“I took a nap.” He grins. “Missed me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra: the proposition of adoption came after Morgan accidentally called Chrom dad one too many times  
> extra 2: I also wanted robin to die and never come back but then i relented because i am weak and a coward
> 
> not extra:  
> Thank you so much for all your support since the start of this fic! Seriously. All your comments and kudos make me live (and melt). I wouldn't have gone so far without yall and I've had some genuinely moving and impactful encounters with some of you people. anyways i love you all, really, and I would die for everyone reading this just so you know
> 
> if you have any fic ideas or prompts or want to sift through my half baked fics or like just want to scream about mundane stuff/form a probably ill advised friendship with a rando online, here is my [twitter](https://twitter.com/shtrigaei) and [tumblr! ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aebers)


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